


Advisable Disclosure

by kaligoose



Series: Ill-Advised [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Getting Together, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Smut, Vaginal Sex, fight kink, gratuitous use of Google to write about stuff I don't know anything about, hey I can't write action scenes but I was in a Mood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 17:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14194470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaligoose/pseuds/kaligoose
Summary: What starts as innocent sparring becomes something decidedly different. Back in your room, things get more honest than originally intended.





	Advisable Disclosure

Sweat beads at your temple as you circle each other, hands up in a loose guard that would allow you to react quickly to his next move. Both of you were breathing quickly but steadily, and your eyes never left each other. With a quick lunge, you feint under the right cross he throws at you. He predicted it and didn't overbalance, able to deflect the quick jab you aimed at his ribs with his right hand—luckily for your already bruised knuckles it was his flesh hand.

You skittered behind him, too close for him to land the elbow he swings at you, unable to resist the urge to goad him with a laugh made uneven by exertion. “You were gonna sock me right in the face with your prosthetic, Jesse? Rude.” 

The chuckle he gives you, raspy from the effort of sparring, is like liquid fire down your spine to pool in your lower belly. “I knew you'd dodge, darlin',” he teases before turning to better aim a series of blows you manage to deflect with generally good results. He manages to nail the side of your left arm hard enough for it to abruptly turn into the static sensation of a nerve being struck, and you hiss.

Your eyes meet again and you see your lust reflected in his eyes.

He seems frozen in place by your gaze, and instead of considering what _that_ might mean, you instead take advantage of it and push back into his space, managing to hook your ankle behind his foot, providing the tipping point for you to knock him off balance with the open-palm strike you land to his sternum. Off balance, his arms windmill almost comically for a second before his opposite leg manages to skip back to keep him upright.

Moving quickly, you pivot and land the follow up knee strike to his midsection, which finally brings him down to the mat. This seems to surprise you more than McCree, because he catches the leg on which most of your weight still rests and manages to get your knee to give out with a quick jab. The squeak of surprise you give when your side hits the floor is definitely comical. 

You both wheeze laughter as you look across the floor at each other; he's shirtless and sweating, wrapped knuckles resting lightly on the blue plastic flooring. His eyes catch on where your sports bra and heaving ribs are easily exposed by the loose muscle shirt askew across your torso. You don't bother to rearrange it, partially because moving your still dead arm sounded like a _lot_ of effort, but mostly because the heat of his gaze was almost palpable on your exposed skin.

As if time slows to a liquid thing, you fixate on the fascinating play of his serratus anterior as the light contrasted against the rippling shadows they created. Your eyes drift up to his, but his eyes have slid to the side of your breast exposed by the sports bra. It takes a lot more self control than it should have to resist the urge to swing your leg to straddle him, grinding down hard—

It takes some effort to cut that train of thought off, distracting yourself with the process of getting up, rearranging your shirt, and offering McCree a hand up where he still lay on the ground. He pulls his eyes off of your ass before reaching up to take the offered hand. “Again?” he asks in that perfectly whiskey-rough voice of his, and you just nod.

Both of you lose track of time, attention so wholly focused on each other as you spar that you forget you are in the training room, where others could and likely would enter and begin their own routines. All you can feel are the aches of hits well-landed, air as it whistles through your nose and mouth, and the lust growing in the heated glances you give each other.

McCree is far from slow, but your smaller frame necessitated that you be faster, that you strike more often instead of harder. After a round of blows Jesse lands that you aren't able to block gives him the opportunity to pin you breathless on your back, you have to bite back a moan as he hovers over you, broad shoulders blocking out the fluorescent lights above as he pins your wrists by your head.

Unwilling to concede to the blush beginning to flourish across your cheekbones, you buck your hips up and to the side. The 'oof' he gives is more satisfying than you want to admit, but that's all you get out of it; he's heavy enough for it to be completely useless without legitimately hurting him. Refusing to give up so easily, you continue to squirm for a moment longer, eyes darting to assess how you can get unpinned and managing to miss the color rising to his cheeks for a moment.

When your eyes meet his again, there is a heat in them that makes you stop struggling, forget entirely that you wanted to win, because all you could think of was his lips crashing into yours, his big hands palming your breasts, sliding down your sides and under you to get a good grip of your ass. 

Neither of you move to follow through on it with the possibility of witnesses though, and after a moment with a husky voice you barely recognize as yours, you murmur, “You win, damn it.” 

It breaks the spell—he blinks, looses the grip on your wrists before rolling back on his heels to stand over you. He offers you a hand that you take somewhat dazedly before the pair of you step over to where your towels and waters sit outside of the ring. Both of you down a good portion of the water bottles, and it is only self control that keeps you from watching overlong as Jesse towels sweat from his hair.

The pair of you step out of the ring and exchange praise and constructive criticism, voices calm and friendly as can be even as your eyes continue to snag on each other, walking to the locker rooms to shower and change. There are no words exchanged on the topic, but less than fifteen minutes later, the freshly showered pair of you are ducking into your room.

As soon as the door is closed, he's on you, the frantic energy of your sparring from earlier abruptly returned. You can only gasp as his beard drags across your neck, his lips leaving wet kisses and small nips across the sensitive skin your head tilts to grant him greater access to. “'d like to mark you up,” he groans into your skin, his hands pulling your hips hard into his. “Can I, sweetheart?”

The shiver that runs down your spine matches the quiet breathy way you respond. “Fuck, yeah, Jesse please—” your words are interrupted by a gasping moan that is a bit louder than intended as his lips fasten onto the sensitive skin on your neck. He makes no effort to avoid areas that are difficult to conceal, leaving mark after mark as his thigh slides between yours and you grind onto it. You're grateful for the friction, as your hands just hold onto his broad shoulders for dear life. 

“Please, Jess, oh fuck,” you urge mindlessly, a hand curling in his hair to pull at it. Not enough to pull him away from your neck, but it is enough pressure to pull at his scalp, and it has him grinding his hardening cock into your hip. Against the sensitive skin of your throat, he gasps your given name in a way that sounds a bit more like a prayer.

Quaking in his grip, you manage to gasp a simple one word request: “Bed.” He reluctantly removes his thigh from between yours, only to find that you were already so wet that you left a subtle patch on the sweatpants he'd thrown on after his shower.

Even as your cheeks flush again, his chuckle is sinful enough that it makes your breath catch. “That's my girl, so good and ready for me,” he praises, and it washes over you like a wave of heat. Fortunately he is stable enough to navigate the both of you over to the bed, and you pause for a moment to appreciate how considerate he is as he removes both your shoes and his, clean socks thrown somewhere for future you to find. Only after having taken care of that is he back on you like a man possessed.

There was really something to be said for the teasing sensitivity of grinding against each other fully clothed. His dick is hard beneath Overwatch-branded sweatpants that do nothing to conceal the girth or length of him. He presses himself to your core and grinds with a pressure that has you seeing stars, has you gasping his name and writhing your hips up to meet his.

His hands draw paths of heat down your skin as he leaves his latest mark on your collarbone to blush into existence, lips sliding down the soft skin of your stomach before drawing off your post-shower sweatpants. Impatient, he draws your underwear with it, leaving you exposed to his appreciative gaze and resulting groan. “Damn, darlin', you always look good enough to eat,” he croons as your fingers wind into his hair.

“Flatterer,” you grin at him and follow it with playfully wagging eyebrows, “but both of us have better ideas for that silver tongue of yours.” The crinkle of his eyes is unfairly endearing and he huffs a laugh at how cheesy the line is into your hip. It doesn't disrupt the momentum of your arousal one bit, because he's on you like a starving man at a banquet. His tongue traces a path up your folds with a directness that has you squirming already. The tip of it finds your clit and he has to wrap his arms fully around your thighs to keep your hips still and legs open for his access.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” you chant as that aforementioned tongue begins teasing you mercilessly. The concentrated furrow of his brow is so damnably endearing that you clench around the tip of his tongue, a tip he is in the process of lathing across the top of your entrance, aiming perfectly for your g-spot. 

A quiet whine eases from your throat as the dexterous muscle leaves you, but you're not left disappointed for long. His lips fasten around your clit, beard a delightful friction against you even as the abrasion pricks at your sensitive nerves. It's enough of a sensation to focus on that you don't realize until he's pressing his fingers into you that you have something to clench around.

There's not a lot of room for him to work in with only one of his hands holding your legs open and his chin so close to his palm, but the push of two perfectly textured and thick fingers into your dripping entrance has you groaning and writhing for him. It takes really only a few presses of his fingers into you, some truly masterful flicks of the tongue, and unwavering eye contact; after a moment, you're coming undone for him.

You are rendered unable to lay still as your orgasm rockets through you, hands stroking his hair, lower back arching up as you press him harder into you, legs twitching. “Jesse, oh god, holy _shit_ ,” you moan, uncaring for once of the volume at which you cry out for him. You had used to be so quiet during sex before Jesse McCree came along, and you tell yourself it's just because he enjoys it.

Flush high on your cheeks, you finally have to pull him away, oversensitive and quivering in his grip. “Come back up here,” you instruct, pulling him up with two gentle hands on his jaw so you can place a deep kiss on his lips. You taste yourself mostly, flavor sharp but doing nothing to deter you.

Now within range of your questing grip, Jesse breaks the kiss with a quick gasp as your hand slips into his loose pants and dexterous fingers wrap around the girth of him. Taking his cock in hand is one of your favorite parts of the arrangement you have with him (and would be even if it didn't usually involve you getting off twice or more). The texture of his skin, velvet over straining solidity; you press the tip of your thumb to the ridge below the crown as your teeth nip gently at his lower lip.

The shuddering gasp of your name against your lips is reward in and of itself. As you stroke him, his forehead presses into the crook of your shoulder, as if he had the intention of leaving more marks across your neck but got distracted along the way. 

“I'm not gonna last much longer if you're gonna be makin' those sounds 'n workin' your magic like that, sugar,” he drawls into your throat, accent thick and almost slurring, as if it took him that long to gain his bearings. He resumes the suction on your neck, and your hips twitch upwards involuntarily. Murmuring into his ear, you croon, “Clothes off then, cowboy.”

Jesse moves out of your space somewhat reluctantly, long enough to remove the plain white shirt he'd just put on a few moments ago, to push his sweatpants the rest of the way down to be kicked unceremoniously to the foot of your bed. You take the time to remove your fresh shirt and sports bra in one movement, glad for both of you finally to be bare—your fingertips trace a familiar path down the scars of his chest and abdomen. 

It never fails to bring a bit of a coy grin to your lips as you grip the base of him only for the perfect application of pressure to make him twitch in your hand. You draw the head of him around your wet entrance, eyebrows drawing together as it presses deliciously into your clit for a moment. Your eyes lock on his as you guide him to the dripping entrance waiting for him.

The stretch is always good—always so damn perfect that it's all you can focus on. He seems patient for you to adjust, but truth be told Jesse wouldn't be able to sink deeper into your inviting warmth at the moment without things coming to an abrupt end. As the pair of you adjust, he leaves kisses on your throat, finally settling where it joins your shoulder to leave a variety of marks on the sensitive skin. 

There's something amazing about the broad span of his shoulders as he hovers between your legs, slowly pressing into you as he marks you as _his_ that almost has you coming again, your walls tightening just a bit before relaxing again and he's finally fully seated. He supports himself on his elbow, and his fingers curl and twist the sheets as you roll your hips up to meet him, craving friction.

He gives you exactly what you want, withdrawing and leaving you empty for longer than you personally think reasonable before pushing in slow and sweet as molasses. It is his patience that fails before yours, though, and soon the pace is picking up. Quick quiet gasps for air are accompanied by the slick sound of him moving within you. 

Your hands are not idle—across the fantastic sweep of his shoulders, your fingertips and nails are doing their part to leave your own marks on him, a particularly well-aimed thrust pressing into your g-spot has you groaning his name, fingernails of one hand leaving raised furrows across the scarred span of his shoulder blade as the other nestles in his hair.

The push and pull, the drag and building heat in your lower stomach are intoxicating in the way that rushes of hormones always are. He feels so large over you, and without really thinking, you wrap your arm around his, finding his clenched fingers and unwrapping them so you can hold his hand as he presses into you.

“Please,” you moan into his ear, and he shudders as if struck by the sound of it. The pace at which he moves into you is markedly increased, and he breaks the liplock on your shoulder to croon into your sensitive skin. “Darlin', sugar, sweetheart—lord _almighty_ , you feel like heaven.”

You previously had intentions of pushing him onto his back and riding him into the sunset, but the press of his chest to yours, the heat of him being so close to you is too much for you to be willing to give up. Your free hand wraps around his back, pulling him closer into you as you rock your hips upward to meet his thrusts.

Your orgasm comes so strongly and so suddenly that it has you twitching in his grip. His fingers tighten around yours as your walls flutter around him, but he doesn't stop fucking into you. The girth of him strokes your walls and you shake in his grip, jaw dropped, silently gaping airlessly as he fucks you all the way through it.

“Inside,” you manage to gasp, legs wrapping around his hips for good measure. “I want you—please, inside, I want to feel you,” you chant into his ear, unaware and uncaring of how little sense you make. Fortunately, he knows exactly what you mean. 

With an abortive stuttering motion of his hips and a truly fantastic growl, he comes hard enough for you to feel it; he seems unable to move and you can feel the throb of him. Jesse's hand grips yours as if it were a lifeline and you squeeze back gently as he breaths hard into your shoulder. His strength seems to be failing him, because he lingers for a while before carefully extricating himself and collapsing on the bed beside you, neither of you doing anything about your clasped hands.

The pair of you, for the second time that hour, lay side by side, panting as sweat cools on your brows. You feel so damn weak from the evening's efforts that your limbs are functionally gelatinous. Jesse draws your attention with a quiet, “Darlin'?” Unwilling to spend more effort than necessary, you give him an inquiring 'hmm?' instead of looking over at him.

“When're we gonna talk about how this arrangement we've got has gotten a bit more emotionally involved than originally intended?”

You are abruptly fully focused again, eyes snapping wide to make eye contact and examine his face. “What now?” you say, as if your hands were not still clasped and your tone did not immediately convey that you knew _exactly_ to what he was referring. “I, ah,” you fumble for words and he chuckles quietly.

“You don't have to worry none,” he says as his gaze swings back up to the dim ceiling above, as if his courage to maintain eye contact had deserted him. “Honeybee, you've got me so wrapped 'round your little finger I'm not quite sure what's up or down,” he admits quietly and you only have your ribs to stop your heart from soaring straight out of your chest. It settles for crowding your throat instead, rendering you speechless.

That said, you know better than to let this chance slip from your fingers, to let this moment be ruined by the fear of rejection that had prevented you from saying anything in the first place. Moving faster than your sluggish muscles really want to respond, you lift yourself onto your side and gently turn his face to yours.

The kiss you share is so tender it brings a bit of a sigh from your lips when it ends. His hand gently squeezes yours and you realize abruptly that you are shaking like a leaf, adrenaline running rampant in your veins. You huff a quiet laugh and you finally find words to respond to him. “I've been yours since that first time in the transport,” you admit, and his brows quirk upward. “Surprised it was so early? Have you _heard_ your voice?” you ask incredulously, and it startles a laugh out of him.

Pressing your forehead to his, you gaze into his hazel eyes, and grin at him with a giddy energy you don't evaluate just because you'd rather focus on him, but it's probably because you've spent the last few months denying the way you feel for him. “How do you feel about making this arrangement official?”

“Sweetheart, I'd like nothing more.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to put something like 'Oh damn this is so self-indulgent' as if that hasn't been pretty much the theme of this series. Anyway, people getting together gives me happy feelings, so I'm gonna write about it, I guess.
> 
> If you see any errors please let me know, because this is definitely unbeta'd.


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